Childhood Vanities and today's Bite me's
by AirborneGirl
Summary: A piece of evidence brings back memories for Teresa Lisbon. And of course, Patrick is not going to let her get away without an explanation.


**Childhood Vanities and today's Bite me's.**

**A/N:** And she's back! And soooooooooooooooo glad. Recovering from being very sick yet again took longer than I had hoped for, but my energy's coming back to me slowly. This story is just a little warming-up and soon, I promise, I'll start putting up the last few chapters of Stop Pretending: the long version.

Thanks for your patience, anyway and enjoy the new story…

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

Everything is as it always has been at the CBI Headquarters. My team still all sitting at their designated desks, the same old leather couch occupied by the same blond haired consultant, pretending to be asleep as usual.

Yet, a lot has changed, albeit not visible.

Red John is dead. Indeed shot by Patrick Jane, who has been hunting him for years. But he was never charged, simply because there was nothing to charge him with. Though all his teammates, including me, team leader Teresa Lisbon, were there and watched it happen, none of us testified against him. We never agreed upon it officially and there are no documents of any kind to proof our little conspiracy, but we simply knew we were not going to let him fry. He has come to mean too much to all of us to just let him be charged for doing what all of us could and would have done legally, just because Jane was never licensed the carry either badge or gun.

So instead of the actual truth (which is, according to our resident oracle, in the eye of the beholder anyway), the official report now reads that Rigsby took the lethal shot at the serial killer, only in defense of his coworker and friend (and more), Agent Grace Van Pelt.

Since Grace was indeed injured in the process of hunting the fleeing murderer, the story was plausible enough and even if both Bosco and Minelli had their second thoughts about the accuracy of the account, neither was there at the time of the shooting, so neither could proof anything.

And whaddaya know? Forensics could fail…or so it seemed. Funny coincidence, huh?

That was a month ago, and even though I feared that the end of Jane's personal quest would mean the end of his time with the CBI, I never had to pressure him too hard to make him stay. So here he is. And everything was exactly is it should be.

Or was it? Had Red John's death not changed anything?

Perhaps not to Cho, Rigsby or Van Pelt. To Bosco? Yes. He was out of the picture, his necessity to the team now obsolete. But nobody really missed him.

To me? No. Not at all. Why would it?

Just because he seems to be flirting with me some more? Okay, a lot more? Just because he lately only addresses me by my given name? Just because that sends very un-boss like shivers down my spine?

Why would that change anything?

It's not like it means anything to him. Like I mean anything to him. He might not even be aware his acting is to be considered flirtatious. I mean…he hasn't been dating anyone since he joined the CBI, he lives like a hermit and as far as I know, he's more celibate than the Pope. And if I'm mistaken, I don't want to know.

So no…I stick with my answer. Nothing has changed.

Really, just because he's more attentive to my needs? Gets me little gifts, like chocolate on a PMS day (how does he know?) or a flower on a rainy afternoon…I don't let it affect me. I'm still team leader, he's still pain in the ass consultant. The world still doesn't revolve in any other way than it has the past millions of years, and certainly not around St. Patrick. Though he would certainly make a point of totally disagreeing, I'm sure. Nothing new in that area either.

Only today, I wish I could let it affect me. Today, I have to restrain myself from showing any pain. This latest case has thrown me off kilter. Because of one detail. One I had forgotten about a long time ago.

Methodically, I pack all the evidence of this brutal murder in the box, trying not to show any emotion while I do so. I don't want to think about the things I've seen or the outcome of the investigation. But I can't help but recall…

The victim was a ten year old girl, the murderer her twelve year old half-sister. Apparently, the latter suffered some kind of Cinderella-type of jealous rage and felt the need to set things straight. With the lack of a prince charming the whisk her away, she chose murder. The murder-weapon of choice was an antique, heavy silver hairbrush.

And it is this brush that brought back the memories…

Sighing, I take one last look at it and close the lid, handing it to Cho to have him take it to the storage room. Then, with nothing else to do, I sink down on my chair, too drained to take part in the customary post-case pizza.

My absence doesn't go unnoticed for long. A gentle knock on my door announces the arrival of Jane, who looks at me with genuine concern in his eyes.

"Not in the mood for pizza?"

Funny, I never feel I have to lie to him. It wouldn't work anyway. So I just shake my head.

"No, thanks. Maybe later. Could you save me a piece?"

"Sure."

He's about to close the door behind him again, but he turns in the opening.

"Anything I can do to take the blues away? I can listen."

"No, thanks. M…"

"Let me guess? Maybe later?"

He smiles at me and one part of my insides thaws immediately. The door closes softly and even though I'm still not in the right mindset to join them, I like to listen to their animated voices and their laughter at some trick I'm sure Jane is pulling.

Hours later, after I heard first Cho, than Rigsby and Van Pelt say their goodnights, I stand in order to go home. I'm glad it's the weekend, I know I could use some sleep, but for now, I hope Jane's either gone home or that he's sleeping, because I still don't really want to bear my soul to him. He might not want to hear about happy family-life stories, even if they're sadly in the past.

Luck is not on my side, as I should have known. First of all, he's indeed still there, though his eyes are closed and his body seems to be totally relaxed. I have to force myself not to look at him, so at peace with the world around him, so young-looking, so angelic and basically beautiful, it's almost inhumane. As I tiptoe past the couch, praying I won't wake him up, I accidentally stub my toe against the table and can't bite back a yelp of pain.

"Teresa?"

Great, now he's awake to see me hopping around on one leg. I want to curse him for being such a light sleeper, but his warm hand around my wrist stops me. Then I take the last fatal mistake of the day and turn my eyes to him.

Oh yes, he's definitely awake and alert, azure eyes not wondering off as they try to assess the situation. Well, here's a clue, Mr. Psychic: I'm tired and sad and I want to go home to vegetate. Can I, please?

"Sit down love. You're in no state to go anywhere. Let me make you a cup of tea."

He saunters off to the kitchen and even though I know I could just stand up and leave, I don't. Somehow it feels wrong to betray his trust by walking out on him. That and the fact that he's persistent enough to follow me to my home make me wait for him to return, holding two mugs and handing one over to me.

After I take a few sips and grudgingly admit it makes me feel marginally better, he smiles again, before bluntly tackling the main issue. Subtlety still is not his strong suit.

"Tell me about the hairbrush?"

With anyone else, I could pretend not knowing what he was talking about. I would insult both his and my own intelligence by trying to with Jane. So I cave. Taking another sip, I start telling him why one piece of evidence completely threw me off guard.

As is common knowledge, my mother died in a car crash when I was twelve. But before that, me and my mom, as the only females in the family, had a special bond, even though we never had that much time to actually spend together. For me, there was school and friends and homework, for her there was the incredible amount of washing, cooking and cleaning to do for one girl and three boys all playing sports.

But Saturday mornings, when dad took my brothers out to their various games of football, baseball and soccer, it was girl-time. After my shower, my mom would let me sit at her vanity-table and would spend hours brushing my hair with her silver antique brush, part of a vanity set containing the brush, a comb and a hand-held mirror. We didn't have much luxury, but this set had been my grandfather's wedding gift to my grandmother and she adored it. She promised me that one day, when I would get married myself, she would hand it to me, as tradition dictated.

But then she passed away and dad became a nasty drunk. He would never let me enter the master bedroom again and I didn't have the guts to ask him if I could have the vanity set for myself.

About two years after mom died, my dad wasn't home and my brothers were too preoccupied with their own lives to notice me going upstairs. I opened the door and stifled a gasp. I didn't know what I'd expected, but the room was both still exactly the same and totally different. It was a mess, it stank of alcohol and neglect and the windows were all shut, making at stifling hot inside.

The vanity set was missing. I remember tearing through the heaps of clothes, bottles and other junk in search of a clue and finding several pawn-notes.

Leaving the room as it was (he would never notice the difference), I took the notes, took all the money I had (about 45 dollars perhaps) and ran all the way down several blocks to find the pawnshop.

I got laughed at. The set was there indeed, but I needed 200 dollars at least to get them back. For the next two weeks, I worked every babysitting job, took every chore and even stole from my brothers to get the amount of money I needed and again I ran to the shop.

Too late. The set was sold.

There was no Internet. I had no badge, no search-warrant, no power whatsoever to make this undone. I only had the tears I refused to cry when I asked the man if he remembered to whom he had sold them. Maybe the new owners would allow me to buy them back from them.

It never happened. Whoever had bought the set had paid for it in cash and no names were given. The trail stopped and my last memory of my mom was in the hands of strangers.

So it's not a true sob-story and lots of more demanding and painful things have happened since, but still…

Patrick hasn't moved an inch as I finish my tale, daring him to ridicule it or to condemn it, ready to pounce if he does.

But he doesn't. instead, he takes my hands in his to stop the trembling (I hadn't noticed until now that they do) and looks at me a little strangely.

"One day, Teresa, I'll make this right for you. I don't know when or how and I don't need an answer, but I promise you I will."

I can only nod. Suddenly, the moment is somehow gone and I want to go home. Now.

I stand, wobbly and gather my purse. Patrick lies down on his couch again, doing nothing to stop me. I'm not disappointed. Really, I'm not.

"Goodnight, Patrick."

"Goodnight, Teresa."

As I walk to the elevator, I suddenly change my mind and turn back to him. That couch, even though he spends a lot of time on it, can't be all too comfortable. Before I can stop myself, I hear the question leaving my mouth.

"Patrick? Why don't you come stay with me for the weekend? You know, have a real bed to sleep in for a change?"

He sits up and for a moment, I think he's actually gonna hold me to my promise.

"That's so sweet Teresa, and one day soon, I will take you up on your offer."

I nod and turn again, assuming the conversation is over. But before the elevator turns up, I hear his last comment.

"When I do, Teresa, I won't stay for just the weekend. And I won't settle for the guest room either."

Never before have I been more glad to hear the ding of the elevator door. But I can't let him have the final say, can I? Too bad I can't come up with anything else than my standard answer of:

"Jane? Bite me."

"Just show me where, my dear."

Oh crap.

************

In the week after that, Jane is unnaturally secretive. His flirting is subdued to mere glances and warm smiles and for a few moments, I get the feeling that the night of my none-too-big story was just a dream. I've certainly forgotten his promise.

Until I see the box on my desk.

A white box. Tied up with a light blue ribbon. No note outside. No clue as to who put it there. No hint indicating its contents.

It has made it through security though, so I assume it's harmless.

Oh well. The only way to know for sure is to open it. I close the door behind me and even draw the blinds. Whatever it is, I get the feeling I should do this in private and me drawing the blinds is usually enough of a hint to my team to leave me alone. Well, to everyone in my team except for Jane, of course. But even he has vamoosed. Interesting, as he might say.

I tear away the ribbon. Take off the lid to find a simple folded note.

_My dearest Teresa,_

_They might not be exactly the same, but I hope they come close._

_Love, Patrick_

Curiosity peaked, a carefully fold away the tissue paper.

And gasp.

Tears obstruct my view as I examine the smoothly polished silver brush with its intricate pattern engraved in it. With shaking hands I put it down to take the comb and the mirror.

They're antique, they're real, they're exquisite and they must have cost him a small fortune and although they're not exactly the same as my mother's, it means more to me than I can tell to see them.

Now trembling all over, I dash out of my office. The couch is empty and I must look like a mad woman when I grasp Van Pelt as she comes in with a case file in hand.

"Where's Jane?"

Startled, van Pelt nods her head in the direction of the small kitchen.

"I think he's making himself some more tea, boss."

Without apologizing to her (no time), I hurry to the kitchen and sigh as he indeed is there, leaning against the countertop as if he's been expecting me all along.

But I guess I can still throw him a little off guard as I hurl myself in his direction. He's only just in time to catch me, but I quickly smother any words he might want to say with my lips sealed to his. Within a second, he kisses me back and takes control.

When our kiss ends due to serious oxygen deprivation, he looks at me and grins.

"I gather you like my gift?"

"It's amazing. I don't know what to say."

"You just said it all, my dear."

I smile through a haze of tears, letting the moment and every change it entails for us, grasp me and surround me like a warm cloak.

"I did, didn't I?"

"All except for one thing, love."

"What's that?"

"Where exactly would you like me to bite you?"

THE END


End file.
